


staking your claim in slender prey

by madamerenard



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerenard/pseuds/madamerenard
Summary: The crab bow the Warrior made him is fine. Good.But Gairhard cannot leave the thoughts of his maple longbow behind.





	staking your claim in slender prey

**Author's Note:**

> this ones for all 5 of the beatin/gairhard fans out there

“How is your hand?”

Beatin levels him with a look. “Not any better or worse than from when you asked an hour ago.”

“Ah, right...” Gairhard looks away, eyes distant. This does not go unnoticed by the timbermaster. Beatin directs a few initiates onto their tasks before he confronts the issue beside him.

“Why do you keep asking?”

“I am worried.”

“That’s all? Shall I get a healer to come and tell you, once again, that I am expected to make a full recovery?”

Gairhard is silent for a few moments. “My bow—”

“—Is perfectly functional. I just checked it yesterday.”

The captain shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

Beatin’s slender brow furrows. “You don’t like the design? The shape? The weight? The craftsmanship? I checked it over myself, I could not find any flaws, but I am not the one who wields—”

“It’s a fine bow,” Gairhard interrupts him gruffly. “Tis not the craftsmanship, but the crafter.”

“I thought you liked my protégé’s work. After all, you commissioned them thrice over...”

“For other’s weapons. Not mine. They do fine work, Beatin, but...godsdammit, I miss my maple longbow.”

Beatin says nothing for a moment, stares out into the Atrium with a frown. “I did offer to make you a new one, and you refused me,” he said quietly, but not without a hint of fury.

“And that was foolish of me. What I wouldn’t give to take it all back, to leave my longbow here and preserve its memory...now it is in pieces on the forest floor.”

“I don’t understand what it is with you and that bow. I promise you, Gairhard, I would put no less love into a new one. And better skill, this time.”

Gairhard shakes his head. “’Twas not the skill. ‘Twas not even the bow. Yes, it’s an initiate’s weapon. But every time I held it in my hands, my mind would fill of visions of our youth. How happy we were back then. Wild, unfettered...so very much in love.” The captain’s smile is weary, strained, but the memories are joyful ones.

Beatin stares at him for a moment, eyes flickering between the tired smile and wistful eyes. “That a simple bow would hold so much,” he muses, putting a half-gloved hand to his temple. “Sentimental fool.”

Gairhard doesn’t answer, but neither does his smile fade.

“We shall discuss this at length in private later,” Beatin finally says before descending the staircase to help a novice. Gairhard takes this as his opportunity to take a walk...to prepare for the incoming argument.

* * *

Beatin finds him at the Carline Canopy later that night, enjoying a tall beer. But from the frown on his face, there wasn’t much enjoyment to be had.

Hand on his hip, the carpenter struts purposefully to his table. He does not sit; instead, he just towers over the drinking Hyur with furrowed white brows. “You’re drunk?”

Gairhard looks up at him, pulling a weak smile. Unfortunately, he’s in perfect control of his facilities. “No.”

Beatin nods. “Good. Now return to the Atrium. Everyone has left.” And with that, he turns on his heel and walks out with the same swagger as when he entered. Gairhard watches the swaying hips that would normally make his mouth dry. But his mood has soured even that. Now there was nothing to be felt but a pit of despair and fear in his stomach.

With a sigh, he throws some gil on the table and goes where he is told. Beatin is not outside, or even in the main hall, and Gairhard finds him in his personal chambers. The guildmaster finishes wrapping up his saw, looking at Gairhard with an undecipherable look. He does not smile or give any sort of welcome—though Gairhard supposes he doesn’t need one. He knows this room better than Beatin does.

“You wanted to talk?” the Hyur starts, if only to break the uncomfortable silence. Beatin doesn’t seem eager to start the conversation either, it seems.

Beatin runs a hair through his hair. “That, and other things. Take a seat. I have a gift for you.” He motions to the bed. Gairhard goes to where he is pointed and sits on the edge of the soft sheets.

“A present?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s not a bow.” Beatin takes another look at his hand—angry with himself, if those furrowed brows were any indication. Then the Elezen looks at Gairhard again, and strides with that sashaying prowl towards him. He only stops once he’s at the edge of the bed, so close to Gairhard that his long legs snugly fit into the captain’s spread ones.

Then he descends to his knees.

The Hyur wasn't always the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he can deduce where Beatin is going with this. “Beatin?”

“Yes?” the timbermaster replies, long fingers already pawing at Gairhard’s pants.

“I thought we were...discussing...”

Beatin closes his eyes for a moment, brows arched upwards in a show of pain. “I heard you are leaving me once more in a mere two days. My hand will not heal in time. So I thought, in place of a bow, I could give you some memories to look back to on cold nights.”

_This_ was what Gairhard was dreading all day? “So...you’re not angry about...”

“I am not angry. I was never truly angry about the bow. In truth, it warmed my heart to know that you kept it, but froze it once more as I realized how unreliable it had become over time. Like so many other times that we have fought, my anger was just a cover for my worries and fears. And you would not let me replace it, and you left with it anyway, and then I heard...the news...”

Beatin could hardly keep his voice in check, and Gairhard is suddenly reminded of the circumstances behind Beatin’s injury. The timbermaster thought him dead, and grief overtook him. Gairhard cannot blame him. He would most likely have done the same if anything happened to Beatin. Maybe even worse.

But Beatin just clears his throat. It’s clear that, while those invisible wounds need more time to heal, he wants to move on. “At any rate. What I am upset over is not about weapons, but what you said to me earlier today. That the reason you used that bow for so long was not even about the bow itself, but the memories attached to it.” He strokes an idle finger against the leather of the Hyur’s pants. “I cannot bring the days of our youth back to us. But Gairhard, I want you to know...I love you no less than before. I am just as smitten at thirty summers as I was at fifteen. And I...I’m sorry that things have changed, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Oh, gods. Gairhard really was a sentimental fool. Here Beatin was, trying his very hardest to keep up their relationship, his very best efforts put forth to please him, while Gairhard was stuck in the past. He had become so obsessed with how they were that he lost sight of how they are now. If he just opened his eyes, he’d see the same beautiful Elezen boy that he fell in love with so many years ago. What a blind, stubborn fool he was—and Beatin suffered for it.

“Of course. Of course. I love you no less than before, as well. Gods, Beatin, I’m sorry. You bring as much joy to my life now as you did when we were young. Things have changed merely because we are adults now, and I need to remember that. I’m doing no good by you sitting here dreaming of our puppy love. Our love has matured and so must I.”

Beatin smiles—in relief, in joy. Like a terrible weight has been lifted off his shoulders. And in truth, Gairhard feels lighter as well, though in its place is a solemn vow to ensure Beatin is loved in the present. The timbermaster lays his head against the captain’s thigh and continues to stroke up and down the seams of his pants, trying to get the mood back. Gairhard is sure he can muster up some lust for him, but mostly his heart is light as a feather, full of light and joy.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I told you, I wanted to give you some memories. New ones...so you don’t have to stroke yourself to the old.” Beatin’s smile turns into a smirk, eyes alight with mischief. Gairhard chuckles. “Alright. But as always, you’re forgetting something.” And with a broad hand, one meant for holding weapons and not making them, he reaches down and plucks the glasses from Beatin’s nose.

“And as always, I tell you, I cannot see,” Beatin says, a little huffy, but mostly smiling. Gairhard barely acknowledges him, however. He is always stunned by Beatin’s beautiful eyes, hidden away from most by the clouded lenses he wears. The small glimpses he is afforded by the turn of Beatin’s head are not always enough for him. When they make love, even Beatin’s eyes must be naked to him, for they hold everything the Elezen is.

“You don’t have to see, love. Just feel.”

Beatin snorts. “I must concede this point to you: only a truly blind man could miss the monster beneath these clothes.” And he brushes his fingers against Gairhard’s crotch, so sensually that the captain feels his pants get ever tighter. He bites his lip and bucks his hips against the touch, craving more.

Beatin indulges him. Long, slender Elezen fingers swiftly undo the buckles and zippers, freeing the “monster” from tight leather. All there was left was the soft cotton of his smallclothes to deal with, though Beatin didn’t seem to be a hurry. Instead, he kisses the growing bulge. Softly, almost sweetly at first, and then with a hot, wet, open mouth. Gairhard tilts his head back with a groan, silently cursing the damn Elezen for getting him so aroused so quickly. The monster grows ever bigger, threatening to tear itself right out of the cotton. His smallclothes are damp with spit and pre-cum when the guildmaster finally decides to move on.

To Gairhard’s relief, he decides to pull down the last piece of cloth trapping his straining length. Beatin licks his lips upon seeing his bare prize. He gives it a moment of respect, but wastes no other time before pressing his mouth to the girth. Gairhard can only whimper as Beatin resumes his hot mouthing on bare flesh. Stocky fingers find themselves wound in white hair, petting and stroking his lover to encourage him. Not that Beatin needs much encouragement. His own breathing is labored, and when he pulls back, Gairhard can see his mouth is watering.

Beatin opens his mouth, showing a wet pink tongue and walls damp with saliva, before he swallows Gairhard’s cock. He doesn’t get very far in—a couple inches at most—but even having the head enveloped in the timbermaster’s warm wet mouth is enough for Gairhard to whine and snarl. The fingers in his hair clench and tighten, now fisting the Elezen’s locks.

Beatin works his cock for a few minutes, alternating between sliding his tongue over as much as he can and trying to stuff more down his throat. Gairhard tries very hard, really, to be good. He really does. He is as patient as he can be while Beatin goes down on him. But the heat of the moment—it’s really Beatin, his beautiful Elezen, his precious love pleasuring him—gets to him, and his animalistic instincts take him.

Gripping the guildmaster’s hair, he bucks his hips. It’s very shallow, slow at first. He doesn’t even want to do it, doesn’t want to push Beatin or hurt him, but it feels too damn good, and he can’t get enough. He yanks Beatin’s head down, forcing him to take more of his huge length in his mouth. Gods, it feels so good, so good that he barely registers that Beatin is clawing him. Finally the timbermaster can think of no other solution but a firm punch to his Hyur’s gut. And, considering the fact that he hauled around logs all day, the strength of his blow was not ignorable.

Gairhard grunts, releasing Beatin’s hair in shock. The Elezen falls to the floor, taken by a coughing fit. He’s clutching his throat, gagging and sputtering. Gairhard barely registers what has happened when Beatin shouts at him—or, rather, tries to.

“I am not a whore!” he rasps before succumbing to another coughing fit.

Dear gods. What has he done? Gairhard falls to the floor in front of Beatin, eyes full of remorse and worry. “Oh, Beatin, gods. My apologies will not be near enough for my actions, but I will apologize nonetheless, for it is all I have...”

And he looks so honest, so sincere, so haunted. Beatin glances at him for a moment, eyeing his repentant expression, as if he had just committed the gravest of sins. And the guildmaster laughs, or at least as much laughing as he can do without being taken over by coughs. “’Tis fine to take the lead, but I’m afraid that my barely not virgin throat just cannot take much of your girth.” Gairhard is confused by the laughing, and even more confused by Beatin slumping over on his chest. As relieved as he is, he expected a much worse response. Beatin truly must love him to endure so much.

Through the worst of his coughing, Beatin now plants kisses all over the captain’s chin and neck. His hands ignore his exposed, weeping length for now to slide up and down his chest. “My Gairhard, you are a true animal. Violently staking your claim in slender prey. _That_ reminds me of our youth, more than your godsdamned bow.”

Gairhard knows what he is thinking of. He also thinks of it fondly...and at nights alone. “Rutting into each other every chance we got? Yes...”

“That piece of our past...I might be able to bring back.” Beatin licks his lips, shifts his hips. It’s very clear to anyone with eyes that he’s quite aroused now. Maybe the way that Gairhard took control but a moment ago was not as hurtful and humiliating for Beatin as the captain thought it was. Here Gairhard thought it would end them, but Beatin looked like he was only just getting started.

Beatin takes a moment from marking Gairhard’s neck and glances down at the stiff flagpole between them. “Should I finish?” he purrs, eyes hooded in lashes.

“Like you said earlier...I am eager to stake my claim.” And Beatin looks more than ready to be claimed. The Elezen’s pale eyes flash with thrill and lust, and he starts clawing at the captain’s clothes. Only behind closed doors is Beatin like this, and only with Gairhard. So open, so needy. All of his walls down. The Hyur starts to pry off his clothes in return, kissing and licking a long slender neck the entire time.

Not always is Beatin pushed down into the pillow, a drooling grin plastered to his face as he is ravaged. But tonight, Gairhard ruts into him like a wild animal as Beatin cries and shouts for more, dragging his nails against the headboard.

And the next morning, when Beatin limps to the closet, Gairhard knows he should feel bad. He really should, but...he doesn’t. Beatin knows it, too. Knows that not only does he not feel guilty, but would do it again if given the chance. So Gairhard does not waste breath apologizing (and all the better to the smirking Elezen).

After all, Beatin is a quarry claimed.


End file.
